The Investigator

By Margarita Khemlin

The Investigator is set in Soviet Ukraine in the early 1950s. With Stalin at the helm, the post-war Soviet Union is struggling to rebuild and to heal the nation of its multiple wounds. Plots and conspiracies abound and challenges to socialist values, real and imagined, proliferate.

A young woman is murdered in a typical Soviet town. In the spirit of the era everyone is a suspect. The investigator of the title sets out to solve the crime. A former intelligence officer who seeks to embody the ideals of the young Soviet Union, he introduces the reader to a polyphony of alternative voices that, together with his own, weave the unique fabric of this striking novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glagoslav Publications B.V.
• Release date: Oct 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781784379674

Book preview

The Investigator

Margarita Khemlin

Contents

Copyright

The Investigator

The Investigator

by Margarita Khemlin

First published in Russian as Дознаватель

Translated by Melanie Moore

Book created by Max Mendor

Cover art: © Marc Chagall, Interior II (DETAIL), 1911, c/o Pictoright Amsterdam 2015.

® Chagall is a registered trademark, owned by Comité Marc Chagall

© 2012, Margarita Khemlin

© 2015, Glagoslav Publications, United Kingdom

Glagoslav Publications Ltd

88-90 Hatton Garden

EC1N 8PN London

United Kingdom

www.glagoslav.com

ISBN: 978-1-78437-967-4 (Ebook)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This book is in copyright. No part of this publication may be  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The Investigator

Let’s be honest, the only thing the people I’ve dealt with in my line of work ever succeeded in was not being successful at all. Destiny is something you make for yourself. And that’s not easy. And it’s not within everyone’s power.

I’m going to tell you about a single incident from my long and extensive career. It dates back to the start of the 1950s, in what we now call the twentieth century. I’m talking about the case of one Lilia Vorobeichik.

At the time, I was a police officer in the city of Chernigov in the Ukrainian SSR. A wonderful place where anyone could listen to the nightingales or the sound of the poplars in the ancient streets, admire the calendar made of flowers in the central square or stroll around landmarks from centuries gone by.

Against a background like this, the Vorobeichik case really stood out. I thought as much when it was assigned to me.

I ought to point out that back in Civvy Street after the war, a lot of people suddenly found themselves in new occupations.

I’d been in military intelligence. More than once, I was sent behind enemy lines to capture potential informers and brought or dragged them back to make them talk. I earned decorations, including the military Red Banner and the Red Star. I lived and breathed respect for the common cause.

As a demobbed intelligence officer, I joined the police. I studied and then worked as an investigator. In the event of murders or other serious crimes, a criminal investigator was immediately brought in from our Criminal Investigations Department or the Prosecutor’s Office. But on this particular occasion, things didn’t turn out quite like that.

Our chief, Maksim Prokopovich Sviridenko, indulged me, a touch against the book. As a result, it fell to me, a humble investigator, to look into the murder as it stood.

A woman, Vorobeichik, had been killed with a knife. A blow to the heart from below, beneath the shoulder-blade. Consequently, there was hardly any blood.

Since I was relatively junior, I wanted to take the utmost care with this case so it would be crystal clear that the assignment had been honourably performed.

I didn’t keep detailed records so I’m fairly unconcerned. It’s better not to go rifling through the paper work or do any cross checking. Nothing good ever comes of that in my experience.

---

Vorobeichik lay in her courtyard at No. 23, Clara Zetkin Street, where she lived alone, on 18 May 1952. Which is why she was lying there in a polka-dot dress that was the height of fashion. The doctor, a woman, determined that it was the work of a good dress-maker, which led me to think I should find out who the seamstress was.

A neighbour of the victim pointed me in the direction of one Polina Lvovna Laevskaya as both dressmaker and friend. Middle-aged, unattractive, with bulging eyes and lips painted into a little pointy heart. Well-known for her skill. In addition, she had a good brain.

She was a complicated woman. Alone after all the misfortunes that had befallen everyone and her, by her own reckoning, most of all. And for that she deserved attention and respect. Although that’s by way of an aside.

What I knew of Laevskaya led me to one Roman Nikolayevich Moiseenko, who had been romantically involved with the victim.

In the context of that particular year, the victim’s Jewish surname immediately caused me misgivings – in case national politics came into it. Although all races here are equal all the same. Especially as a result of the Great Patriotic War.

In the normal course of events, Jews were rarely murdered. They are a quiet race, the vast majority teetotal.And, since nothing pointed to a robbery, it looked set to be an innocent sort of case. By which I mean a crime of passion and jealousy, for example.

Moiseenko was the prime suspect. That’s generally how it goes. The lover’s first in line. Unless there’s a husband, of course. Furthermore, he worked as an actor at the drama theatre and, word had it, was an enthusiastic drinker of spirits. But at that time almost everybody was. The suspect’s personal profile in that regard had still to be ascertained.

The day I first met Roman Nikolayevich Moiseenko, I did a commendable job.

I found him looking distracted during a rehearsal for Hulak-Artemovsky’s people’s opera, Cossacks beyond the Danube. Moiseenko wasn’t taking part. Instead, he was sitting in the front row, voicing the part of an actress who was off sick. I determined that he was in the auditorium rather than on stage because he was seriously unsteady on his feet and might fall through the stagehands’ trapdoor which was open for some reason, or into the orchestra pit.

When I asked him nicely, Moiseenko followed me into one of the dressing-rooms for a chat. Although I did have to take him by the arm while he loudly indicated the way.

I asked him straight out whether he knew about Lilia Vorobeichik’s murder and what his thoughts about it were. Particularly since the woman had not yet been buried and her corpse awaited vengeance.

I am not a great fan of statements for the record, although these always remain a strict requirement. I prefer to meet the person I’m interested in at their place of residence or work first. At the station, the atmosphere itself encourages the person being questioned to mobilize their forces. Personally, I used to think – still do indeed – that such all-out mobilization is detrimental to an investigation. What’s needed is freedom and the impression that before too long this chap will be on his way and everything will go back to normal. A few days later, I issue the citizen with a summons and by then the mobilization has no effect. It can’t handle that preliminary easing off. Yet that’s precisely what I offer for an ulterior motive of my own.

At the time, I preferred to operate using intuition rather than book learning. I was selected by the Party to enter the police when I was demobbed from the army. And I saw myself primarily as a human being rather than a stickler for the law. I was thirty-two.

Roman Moiseenko turned out to be a handsome man, considerably younger than Lilia Vorobeichik. At the time of her sudden death, she was thirty-eight. He was twenty-seven.

Nature itself seemed to have destined Moiseenko for a career on the stage. Black brows, hazel eyes, a cascade of dark hair, his figure, his height etc. etc. He was the complete opposite of Vorobeichik. Before she died, she had bright red hair and her eyes were blue. As for her height, she was tall and just a tiny bit overweight.

Some people like to show photos taken at the scene of the incident because they bank on shocking the suspect. I didn’t. After the war, no-one could be shaken by the sight of death. Moreover, things are always worse in the imagination than in reality. I know that from my own experience.

Moiseenko looked at me calmly and directly. He didn’t smell too good, his breath reeked of several days’ worth of stale alcohol.

What’s there to talk about? he said. I killed Lilka.

I wasn’t happy with such a quick confession, especially taking Moiseenko’s personality into account.

With the utmost severity, I said, You are misleading the investigation.

He lowered his gaze but stuck to his guns.

You can’t argue with an unforced confession. At that point, everything has to start going on the record and so on.

The main thing was that the murder weapon hadn’t been found. There were two knives of the right size in the victim’s house. They were identical, sharpened and almost new.There were other styles of knife too but they were very small and clearly blunt. All the knives were clean, as clean as knives can be that are in daily use.

A close neighbour testified that there had been a third knife too. One that apparently looked just like the other two apart from having, as the late Lilia used to say before she died, a blade made of special steel. She would boast about it, demonstrating its sharpness against her own finger nail. This made it possible to suppose that that very knife was the murder weapon, missing, whereabouts unknown.

There was a thorough search but without the required result. Incidentally, concealing the murder weapon attested to the perpetrator’s sober state of mind. When the balance of his mind is seriously disturbed, a malefactor tends to panic and dispose of the weapon at the scene of the crime, not always out of remorse but seemingly in sheer surprise at what he has done.

It went against Moiseenko that the neighbours had seen him in the courtyard not long before Vorobeichik was found dead.

Moiseenko gave a good verbal description of just where the knife had gone in. But that didn’t mean a thing since rumours about the killing had spread quickly. Before the officers of the law arrived, the local women had come running at the scream of a neighbour who had popped into Vorobeichik’s for something and, quick as a flash, they had passed on a description of the corpse and so on.

At the morgue, Moiseenko conducted himself with dignity and gazed at Vorobeichik with honest, open eyes.

---

My quick action earned me plenty of praise from the top brass. However, the day before the court hearing, Roman Nikolayevich Moiseenko committed suicide by hanging. He didn’t leave a note as he didn’t have a pen or pencil about his person and, since he was neither a writer nor a revolutionary in the Tsar’s torture chambers, he hadn’t requested anything to write with in advance.

His personal confession outweighed any arguments for continuing the investigation. There was no shortage of other work. Those were hectic times.

The incident receded as other business came to the fore.

---

One July evening, I was walking along Clara Zetkin Street at dusk. Taking a stroll before bed. For some reason, I had chosen a different route – from where I lived to the River Strizhen.Perhaps I felt drawn to go and look at the military hospital, where I’d spent a long time recovering from wounds at the front after we won the war and where good fortune had brought my wife, Lyubochka, and me together. She was an auxiliary nurse on the surgical ward.

Suddenly, I caught a clear glimpse of a shadow at the gate to No. 23. The shadow reminded me of Citizen Vorobeichik. I didn’t doubt for a moment that it was she who had closed the gate, looked back and given me the once over.

The gate slammed shut. The catch caught on the inside.

I continued on my way. And, of course, once I’d recovered from the surprise, I realized I’d seen a relative of some kind, there to inherit. The incident wasn’t worth a fig, as they say.

But I had been so struck by the likeness that it very much piqued my interest.

The next morning I approached the house on Clara Zetkin Street. The gate was ajar, giving me legitimate access to the courtyard.

I knocked at the door. It was opened by an old woman of Jewish appearance. So Jewish that her headscarf was even tucked behind her ears in the Jewish way and only then tied under her chin the way decent people do.

There was a good smell in the house, like bread or baking. Since the kitchen was right next to the doorway, I immediately spotted some large circles of dough on the table, thin as could be and riddled with tiny holes. There was also a little wheel with a wooden handle for evenly distributing the holes. The old woman’s apron was covered in flour and there was flour on the floor.

I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew this was matzo. Special food for their Passover. From my own experience and from the nature of my work, I knew that this Passover was over. Furthermore, not only was matzo making not welcomed by the Soviet law-enforcement agencies, there were examples of it leading to convictions that cost the offenders dear, including lengthy prison sentences.

Jewish nationalism is Jewish nationalism. What can you do?

---

I showed my ID and gave my name. The old woman mumbled something and yelled into the house, Evka, get out here. It’s you they’ve come for! Making her way towards me from behind a lace curtain was, apparently, the late Citizen Lilia Vorobeichik. Clearly, however, it was the same women I had spotted yesterday in the dark and, incidentally, alive.

She was wearing just a set of camiknickers. I’d seen a lot of those in Germany in ‘45.

She was perfectly at ease as she came over to me although she hadn’t done her hair and was barefoot.

What do you want? she asked.

I repeated my name and rank and presented my ID.

She read it carefully. You could still let other people take your papers in those days.

Police Captain Mikhail Ivanovich Tsupkoy, she read out, deliberately pronouncing each individual letter.

The woman looked me up and down from head to toe and wanted to add something of her own to what she saw in the document.

But I wouldn’t let her. I asked for her passport.

She fetched it. She still hadn’t got dressed or smoothed down her red hair.

As she held out the passport, I noticed that her underarm hair was light too. It was. Thick and light. I felt embarrassed for her. Being like that.

Passport details: Eva Solomonovna Vorobeichik. Registered in the town of Oster, Kozelets District, Chernigov Oblast.

I asked what she was doing in the late Lilia Vorobeichik’s house and how she was related to her.

She replied, saying, We’re sisters. Twins. I’m going to wait here until the inheritance is sorted out. Once I’m entitled to do so, I intend to stay on. Or I might sell the house, I haven’t made my mind up yet.

There was nothing to object to. But there was the matzo.

I said, Citizen Vorobeichik, why are you making matzo, especially when it’s not Passover? That’s really not on. I’m giving you a serious warning. And it’s compounded by you taking on hired labour.

Eva addressed the old woman in a loud voice. He wants you to show him your passport. Show him. And tell him we haven’t hired you, you’re our auntie, mine and Lilka’s.

The old woman got her passport from her room. It was well-thumbed and covered in flour. She opened it and held it out on the palm of her hand.

She had a different surname – Tsvintar. Her first name, Malka, was pure Jewish, old-fashioned, as befitted one of her years.

I asked her on which side of the family they were related.

While the old lady struggled to understand the question, Eva said with a sigh, On the Jewish side, alright? She didn’t lower her voice as people usually do even when she used these unflattering terms. Brazen bitch. And we’re just going to crumble the matzo up quickly for the chickens. It’ll be a real feast. We’ve got hens, out there, behind the house. We’ll give it to them. It was just for something to do, out of boredom and sadness. Lilechka’s gone. And she loved baking. Matzo couldn’t be easier to make. Just water and flour. That’s all. Water and flour. What’s wrong with that? No yeast, no butter, nothing, not a thing, nothing at all.

She advanced towards me as she said nothing and everything beneath the repellently pink camiknickers jiggled right in my face. Although height-wise she was shorter than me.

I left.

Suddenly it dawned on me that Lilia Vorobeichik hadn’t kept chickens. There had been a shed full of clutter behind the house. Moreover, I had been negligent in studying the paperwork. I had failed to check whether Eva was married. At the time many women kept their maiden names when they got married. I had no idea what her job was or where her income came from.

I scheduled a follow-up for the day after tomorrow. In order to allow Eva Vorobeichik and her so-called aunt to lower their guard.

---

I turned up in uniform.

The gate was locked. It was quickly opened when I knocked loudly.

The dressmaker, Polina Lvovna Laevskaya, who was in the house at the time, recognized my face and said in delight:

You see, the Soviet system stands up for people. It really does! I was just explaining to Eva. There’s nothing on earth that the Soviet authorities can’t find out. Isn’t that so, Comrade Captain? Have you come to talk about Lilia? If it’s hard to bear, tell me first and then I’ll pass it on gently to Evocha. Hand it to her on a plate. Ever so carefully. I can do that. You know me.

She was talking too much and taking her time about letting me into the house. I remarked that I was on duty and didn’t want to listen to anything irrelevant.

I went ahead of her and pushed the door open myself.

Order and polish reigned in the kitchen.

Laevskaya squeezed past me and through the door. As she did so, she made sure one solid leg made contact.

I’m sorry, Comrade Captain. I’ve embarrassed you. Here you are on duty and you’re blushing. That wasn’t very nice of me. Evochka’s just popped out to the shop and Malka’s asleep. There, behind the curtain. Sleeping like a baby. It’s true what they say – old age is a second childhood.

On the small, round table with its white, crocheted cloth stood two thimble-sized liqueur glasses and a small decanter of cherry brandy. It was immediately obvious that it was last year’s liqueur because, firstly, the new fruit had still to be picked and, secondly, it was turning to syrup. The inside of the glass was virtually coated in a layer of deep red. Like blood.

Laevskaya made herself at home and got another glass.

She turned it about in front of her face and offered it to me questioningly. You, of course, won’t be having a nice little snifter of brandy but I’ll put it on the table for form’s sake. Just to be friendly.

I didn’t want to cause a conflict over nothing and nodded my assent.

Laevskaya sat down.

So did I.

She was first to break the silence.

So, what do you have to say about Lilechka?

I’m here about something else. And it would be better if you left now, Polina Lvovna. With the utmost respect, of course.

Oh, of course, I’ll go. If that’s what it takes. Just tell me one little thing. What’s happened to bring you here about something else?

I behaved entirely properly and immediately gave myself due credit without bragging or vanity. Laevskaya had taken a shine to me and a little later I would be able to milk her for a good deal of useful and important information. With a view to receiving information in return, she would tell me all she knew.Whether she might make up anything extra was the real question.

I said meaningfully, That’s police business. I’d like you to leave.

She looked behind the curtain and, blinking her eyes towards it, whispered, If it’s a secret, don’t mention it in front of Malka even if she is asleep or something. She pretends to be deaf as a post but there are no flies on her.

Aloud and in the direction of the curtain, she said, I’ll be guided by you. I’m going. Please, wait for Evocha. She’ll be here any minute. In the meantime, try dear Lilechka’s tasty little liqueur. What the eye doesn’t see... It’s lovely and sweet. Poor Lilechka had a sweet tooth.

When I entered the house on Clara Zetkin Street, the clock read exactly two o’clock. I left at half past three. I read the papers on the bookshelf and listened quietly to the wireless.

Malka never emerged from behind the curtain. At the same time, I noticed that she answered little calls of nature in a pot or something of the sort.

Eva never turned up.

I drank one glass. To spite myself. It was the first time I had shown such weakness. Rules are rules. But show it I did. Right before I left. And a good job too. The liqueur was bitter and I concluded that the women hadn’t been drinking it at all. Just pretending in case someone looked in.

Next I walked all around the outside of the house. There really were chickens in the backyard. The shed had been cleared of its clutter and fitted out as a henhouse. I found light coloured crumbs and broken bread on the ground. Broken into big pieces as if to prove that it really was matzo.

The plot was enclosed by a fairly low but sturdy fence. It would be impossible for an adult to pass through the thin gaps between the slats. Which meant there was only one way into the house – through the all-too-familiar gate. I checked again although I had already ascertained this during the Lilia Vorobeichik case. Next, I made a grade A study of the house.

And the backyard and outside the front. But a lot had changed in the past two months. Just look at the chickens.

I observed the gate from various vantage points. No one went into the house or came out either.

At 1700 hours, I gave up and called it a day.

There was real work waiting for me and I had no right to be distracted by a personal matter. Even then my conscience told me that it was personal.

That night I dreamed about the small, round table at the Vorobeichiks’ house.

They wanted to lift the body of the murdered woman onto the table in its coffin to begin the farewells. The coffin wouldn’t fit. It was losing balance, threatening to fall.

They lifted the coffin down.

On the table lay another woman, the same as the one in the coffin but naked, who said, moreover, That’s not how you do it. This is.

She curled up in a foetal position. And that worked well.

They said, Since you fit so well there, we’ll say our last goodbyes to you and Lilia can continue to thrive and prosper.

It’s possible I made those last words up but that was the essence of it.

---

I make no secret of it. I immediately took an awful lot on myself. I didn’t share my impressions with my work colleagues. And, as a result, stewed it all over by myself.

To all intents and purposes, there was nothing going on. But I began to keep a very serious eye on the house in Clara Zetkin Street. When I wasn’t engaged in urgent police work, of course.

In this way, I established that the dressmaker Laevskaya was constantly visiting the house (several times in forty-eight hours).

Several times, a Jewish man of very advanced years darted in and out with a bag.

There was a dog barking. Previously, in the late Lilia Vorobeichik’s time, there had been no guard dog in the yard.

The Tsvintar woman didn’t put her nose outside.

And, most importantly, there was no sign whatsoever of Eva Vorobeichik.

Light showed in the windows on the side of the street where the fence was lowest until late at night. Until about eleven o’clock.

Facts are stubborn things. And these facts were saying they needed to be understood. I couldn’t figure them out.

Just one fact was abundantly clear and that was Eva Vorobeichik. The one and only.

---

Incidentally, my family life at that time consisted of a family of three: me, my wife Lyubov Gerasimovna and our four-year-old daughter Anechka.

We were renting a room from an elderly couple named Shchupak and aspired to nothing better since we had been promised our own space in a nice new barracks on Voykov Street before too long. And, if we had another baby in short order we might even hope for a flat in an official block on Kotsyubinsky Street. But we hadn’t managed to produce that other baby. And particularly not to order.

And so, off my own bat, wearing ordinary trousers and a white shirt, I set off to see Polina Lvovna Laevskaya.

She wasn’t surprised. Greeted me like a dear friend.

Mikhail Ivanovich, at last! The things people are saying in town, the things people are coming up with… And about you in particular. I’m not talking about all the different gossip. You know about that from work without me. I can tell you what’s being said about you, if you like. And you can take action. Because you can’t let it carry on. Not nowadays, you can’t.

I asked what she meant exactly.

Laevskaya made a show of being embarrassed and began her account.

This is what she said.

---

Rumours about the Vorobeichik case were rife in Chernigov. No-one believed that the now late actor, Moiseenko, was guilty. I was being accused of prejudice against the Jewish people and of blocking the investigation. In a word, people were saying, it was all a shady business. And when Malka Tsvintar told her neighbours I had called in and made Eva Vorobeichik’s acquaintance, Malka Tsvintar was informed in return that they expected nothing else of me since I had personally brought the investigation to an artificial conclusion and was now intent on silencing Eva Vorobeichik as Lilia’s immediate heir.

At this point, I caught Laevskaya out.

I said:

And when did the old Tsvintar woman spread all this nonsense? What day was it? Yesterday? The day before? Or when? Have a think, Polina Lvovna. Rumours take time. Rumours are not little children. It takes more than a second to produce them.

Laevskaya shot back:

I don’t know. But Malka has been talking to people. And people have been talking to her. You won’t stop her mouth.

But who could Malka have been talking to any great extent? After all, she was new in town. Laevskaya was another matter.

I hereby declare, Polina Lvovna, that you are the person behind these rumours. And that the Tsvintar woman wasn’t popping in to see you, you were going to see her a hundred times a day. And then you spread all sorts of nonsense around town. Look me in the eye when I’m talking to you! There’s nothing on the floor. Or on the ceiling. Look me in the eye when I ask nicely, please.

Laevskaya looked balefully in the general area of my face but not in my eye. Of course, she wasn’t brazen enough for that.

You know something, Mikhail Ivanovich… Here you are in your nice white shirt. And no gun. So I can tell you – you don’t know everything and you can’t bring everything to light.

What light are you talking about, Polina Lvovna? Show me! Go on!

I was losing patience. Not because some goggle-eyed piece of mutton dressed as lamb was pressing her fat thighs against me but because I was insulted. I was going out on a limb. But was as if she was looking down from above and could see.

Mikhail Ivanovich, Lilechka’s case is closed, under lock and key, isn’t it?

And?

And… who has the key?

I have no intention of trying to guess your Jewish riddles. That’s not what I shed blood for. Even now, I’m taking a risk for your sake.

At this point, Polina Lvovna grabbed me by the arm and hissed right in my face and the breath of that hiss was like Red Moscow perfume only musty and rank:

How long have you been in this town? So, five years. At most. But it’s not about how long. I haven’t been here all that long either. But you, Mikhail Ivanovich, only talk to people when your works means you have to. Whereas I know everything and everyone because I choose to. And you’re not doing me a favour by taking my hand. I’m the one who can do you a favour - or not. It doesn’t matter who’s saying what. What matters is that it’s about you in person. And things don’t look good for you personally. It could be reported to the Party Committee. And taken even further.

I didn’t understand a thing. Maybe she’d been drinking that perfume and was drunk on it. After that rancid cherry brandy of theirs, I wouldn’t put it past her. No. She was sober. If she’d been one of ours, I might still have had my doubts. I know the Jews! A man maybe but the women, they really don’t drink.

There was a knock at the door.

It was a customer with some fabric.

Polina Lvovna graciously spread the fabric on the table. She waved the crepe de chine in front of my face so that it billowed out.

She said:

And is your wife, Lyubov Gerasimovna, planning to have a nice new frock made? If she is, she should come to me. I’ve made a note of all her measurements. She told me you really like what I’ve made for her. A woollen dress for winter – terracotta. She’s such a pale little thing. Terracotta puts a bit of colour in her cheeks. That was my advice. Thank you for coming to settle your account. Say hello to your wife. And little girl. Give the little one a kiss from me, precious little poppet that she is.

And she began to chat to the woman who had come for a fitting.

---

I didn’t know my Lyuba had her clothes made by Laevskaya. I didn’t keep count of her frocks. There was nothing to count in any case. There was one, terracotta, for going out and another, brown, that she wore all the time. That was for the winter. For summer, she had a pinafore dress or something like that.

No doubt that schemer Laevskaya was now discussing me with her customer. Who knew what she would concoct? And how many women went to see her in a day? Well, two for certain. And those two would talk to another two and so on and on. No need for the Tsvintar woman at all.

And all of it baseless. Absolute twaddle.

However, if I were the type to dwell on such silliness aimed at me in person, I wouldn’t be working in law-enforcement. Nor would any of our officers. We wouldn’t even have won the war. It’s not that there shouldn’t be anything personal. A person should have everything in perfect proportion: the personal and the public.